Eternal CityFor Samuel GareginyanHe who says that in artone finds not the objectbut its myth, himself standsmonastically thinand looks like his own self-portrait, the same eyestaring out at you,marking your silhouetteagainst the wall or posture at tablewith its wild precision.He needs so few things that he got ridof the chairs in his studio for want of spaceand stands for hours as he finishesDionysus' hairy thighor the nymph's coy hand,still on the hefty shoulder.When out of his window in war-torn Armeniahe gazed at the ruins of Erevan's tall gardensreduced to firewood,he understood that to revive a placeone must by an effort of the soulrebuild it from scratch, so he paintedhis Eternal Cityover three years in several apartments,first there then here, and Iam now bound to roam it forever,a myth impossible to exit.When he went to real Rome,he didn't like it,although he did shudderat the sight of aesthetic treasureslong photographed by his heartto the obscurest detail.He says there was too much foodand it was too good,a distraction for the mind,which must be hungry.A feast once in a while is OK,but Europe doesn't need anymore beauty: now an artist can liveonly in America. Excerpted from Letters from Aldenderry by Philip Nikolayev All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
